POV: Vivian
Chase arrives at my apartment thirty minutes after Marcus's phone call, and I can hear him coming before he reaches my door. Heavy footsteps, the kind that suggest barely contained rage. He doesn't knock, just uses the key I gave him months ago in a moment of weakness I've regretted ever since.
The door slams open. Chase storms in holding a leather checkbook, the expensive kind that rich people use when they want to make a statement. He throws it on my kitchen table hard enough to make my coffee mug jump.
"Fifty million dollars. I'll write the check right now. Name your price for freedom."
I stare at the checkbook like it's a weapon, which in a way it is. Money as power, money as control, money as the solution to every problem except the ones that actually matter.
"No."
